Final Destination: No Time To Scream
by mcoverit
Summary: An impulsive and aimless high school senior named Harmony Knight saves a handful of people from a fatal accident. But just as the survivors begin to untangle the mystery that surrounds their second chances, they begin to die one-by-one in a series of brutal accidents, seemingly orchestrated by Death itself.
1. Chapter 1

**One**

Its cold to Harmony Knight, so cold she decides that one jacket isn't enough.

She tumbles from the double doors of the school, hugs her chemistry textbook to her chest for warmth, squints at the sun, tries to focus on attracting enough heat to make it to her car. Behind her, she hears Bethany Lambert call her name, and it makes Harmony rush a little quicker. She fumbles in her jacket pocket for her keys. As she pulls on them, she realizes that they've snagged on a thread. Then she drops them and as she bends down to pick them up, someone in a rush shoves her, knocking her textbook from her hand. It slides across an ice puddle in the parking lot and into a snow bank.

By time Harmony picks it up, Bethany is upon her, her lips curled back revealing perfect, straight white teeth, her blue eyes alight with a fifties-sitcom sort of joy, her blonde hair swept back in a neat, tight ponytail. "I called your name, I didn't know if you heard me or not."

"Oh, sorry," Harmony says, stands up, shakes the snow off of her textbook.

Bethany's smile seems a little frozen. She twists the gold bracelet on her wrist, shivers a little. "You never got back to me… about the assignment?"

"Oh, yea… sorry," Harmony says. "Busy week, SATs and stuff,"  
"Yeah, I know. I _totally_ understand," Bethany pulls her backpack straps a little tighter on her shoulders. She's doesn't shiver. Then again, her four hundred dollar coat is properly insulated compared to Harmony's thrift shop jacket which had come with a hole underneath one of the arms. "But it _is_ due next Friday. If you want, we can study together?"

Harmony would rather eat nails with no teeth. She can imagine Bethany chirping about homework and finals and colleges and family. Bethany's social circle seems to consist of parents and teachers and she talks like someone who has lived fifty years rather than eighteen. She looks a little desperate, a little eager, for a positive response but it hardly fazes Harmony. She has a date with a video game controller and a box of pizza scheduled for every night this week.

"Nah, I'm good." Harmony says, begins walking to her car. She feels Bethany following her and her mind groans.

"Well, you know, this project _is_ like ten percent of our grade."

Yes, Harmony was aware. The English project, the dreaded Romeo and Juliet translation piece. _Turn Romeo and Juliet into modern day teens; translate each word of dialogue into a text message, something readable to someone who's never read Shakespeare before_. Harmony had looked at the original text a month ago, when the project was first assigned, and yawned by the second paragraph. Shakespeare was definitely not her thing. Her saving grace came when her teacher, Mrs. Watkins, who looks like she should be guarding a crypt or transforming into a raisin, said that they could choose partners. Everyone had paired up and Harmony was alright with that. She had glided by in the background of high school until recently, sort of. She heard some people call her a bitch and sometimes people walked on the opposite side of the hall from her, but hey, she sort of liked it like that.

Besides, she could have it as bad as Bethany.

Bethany was the only other student not paired up with anyone but that wasn't because she blurred into the background. People consciously avoided the preppy, high strung blonde as if their lives depended on it. Working on a project with Bethany was like trying to drive a car with someone sitting on your lap, giving you directions. At first Harmony decided that she was going to work alone, she was okay with that, but Bethany, noticing her, sauntered over with this huge beaming smile, set her books on the empty desk next to Harmony's, and squealed about how much _fun_ this was going to be, she was _so excited_ , _OMG_ she wanted to get to _know_ Harmony, she knew _all about_ Shakespeare so Harmony would hardly have to work at all, did she mention how _fun_ this was going to be?

Harmony, a little unnerved, decided that it might be smart to pair up with Bethany, exchange numbers, because honestly she was failing English. Well, she was failing most of her classes. Kind of hard to concentrate in class when you're worrying about where you're getting your next fix. Plus, she was dating Scott Soto, this really hot college senior up at Glendale, and he took up a lot of her time, bringing her to the gun range, exploring abandoned buildings, making YouTube videos of his band. Last year, after hearing about how much he dreaded finals week and hated his pretentious professors and could literally kill his snooty classmates, she'd subconsciously decided that college wasn't for her and that's when her grades started slipping. So she didn't necessarily _care_ if she failed English but her mom would throw a fit, and maybe even throw her out, if she didn't make an attempt at this thing.

If they ace this project, it might bring her grade up to a D, and who could complain about a D? Not her mom, that's who.

"I know." Harmony says, trying not to grind her teeth. "I'm a little busy, you know?"

Bethany frowns. "Okay, I totally understand, I'm here if you need to talk about it or anything but… well, I'm going to be completely honest, so don't bite my head off, and I _know_ that you're not the type of person to leave the entire project hanging over me and I know that you said you'd make time to study with me, but my parents promised me a trip to Italy if I kept my grades up."

A trip to Italy? Harmony often wonders if she has enough money for a trip to the grocery store. "Of course," Harmony blurts snidely and then she nearly covers her mouth as the shocked look on Bethany's face begins to sink in but then realizes she doesn't really care what Bethany thinks. Still, she wants this A. "I-I mean, of course, I _understand_." Harmony says. "We'll work together next week."

"As you may or may not know," Bethany says and Harmony could swear that her tone has dropped a few degrees. "I have this huge swim thing next week and I need to dedicate, like, _all_ of my time toward it. And I would really appreciate it if we could spend a couple of hours today to, you know, _get this done_."

"Today, today…" Harmony pretends to go through her mental calendar. "You know, I'm pretty much booked for today. I swear, we'll get together next week," Maybe if she talks in Bethany's language, Bethany will understand that she isn't interested in hanging out. " _Totally_ ," Harmony adds, sporting a huge mannequin grin.

Bethany's frown deepens. She opens her mouth to speak, and then she seems to compose herself by straightening her back and crossing her arms. "Well," She says in a voice heavy with annoyance. "We don't _have_ to work on this project together, like, at all."

"Okay, awesome." Harmony begins to turn around.

"I'll just, you know, find _another_ partner or something."

Harmony freezes. She turns slowly, chuckles softly. "You're not serious."

"It's not like you've done anything to help me so far. You won't call me back; you avoid me in the hall to hang out with your… _friends_." Bethany sneers at the word. She may as well have made air quotes. "This is _really_ important to me; I've wanted to visit Italy since I was a little girl."

"You're seriously going to take me off of the project?"

"I'm not trying to be a _bitch_ here," Bethany says, puts a hand on Harmony's shoulder. Harmony tries not to flinch it away. "But I need you to meet me at the Presley Diner in, like, twenty minutes, or you're out. We're going to get this finished _today_."

She walks past Harmony, to her brand new convertible, probably paid in full by her loaded parents. Harmony closes her eyes, doesn't care if Bethany can hear her groan. Then she thinks that if she just sits back and shuts up, maybe Bethany, with her dominating personality, might do all of the work for her anyway. And what is a couple of hours? It's Friday night and she's got the weekend to play Call of Duty and hang out with Scott.

 _Just grab the biggest surfboard and ride the wave_ , Scott says sometimes after an argument. She decides to ride.

 **~FD~**

Harmony spots Bethany's convertible in the diner's parking lot, along with three other cars. She parks on the opposite side of the lot, even though there's a spot right in front, because she wants to avoid all of those egg eating yuppies. Through the windows, Harmony sees Bethany automatically, the collar of a blue blouse sprouting from the neck of a maroon home-knit sweater, her hair out of her ponytail, wavy down her back, the focus on her textbook hard and concrete. An earthquake wouldn't disturb her from her studies. Harmony rolls her eyes, leaves the warmth of her car and enters the brisk March afternoon.

Welling, New York, wears the winter well. The snow that stacked on the buildings looks picturesque, Christmas card worthy. People are huddled close as they walk on the sidewalks behind Harmony, shivering, laughing, and talking about how cold it is. Expensive earmuffs and gloves and scarves and coats make Harmony a little bitter. She lives twenty minutes away, in a small town called Rockford, where the citizens don't look so glamorous in their trailer homes and RVs. The trailer her parents own is probably the cleanest in the row. There's a dying tree that showers leaves and sticks every once in a while and the litter is at least picked up, but Harmony never really invites people over, and that's all well to her, but her mother used to tell her that a closed fist get no honey, or something like that, and because she won't share her life, she isn't sure what the grass looks like on the other side.

She imagines warm homes with fireplaces and working ovens and multiple bathrooms. She imagines smiles full of love, hugs, back rubs, foot rubs, concern and attention. She imagines large clothes closets, king-sized beds for kids, full-stomach thanksgivings and piles of Christmas presents.

Jealousy seizes her when she enters the diner and finds Bethany at the table picking at a large meal. Bethany wears her glasses now and she looks up at Harmony over her frames. She smiles warmly, nodding to the opposite seat.

"I'm just rereading the third act again. These people were so messed up." She giggles, takes a sip of her coffee. "So, where do you want to begin?"

Harmony, drawing a blank on the play, shrugs, drops her book bag onto the seat next to her, rests her chin on her fist. "Tell me where you got first and I'll catch up."

Bethany seems eager to show off her work, talking fast about how she turned fight scenes into angry Facebook rants, how she added group chats and blog posts and emojis. Harmony drones out after a couple of seconds, opening her own copy of the play, pretending to read the Shakespearian dialogue. She hears some shouts from the kitchen (" _Order up_!", " _Hurry with those fries_!", " _Can you go to table ten, Diane_?").

Presley Diner was once the go-to spot, before many of her classmates discovered fake IDs and bars. Their waffles used to be Harmony's favorite when she was a kid, a time when her parents did family things with her, like take her out to eat or actually talk to her. Her brother, Adam, used to love their waffles too. He used to take hers from her plate when she went to the bathroom. It used to annoy her, cause her to yell at him, call him names.

Now, if he were still alive, she'd let him stuff himself with her meal, even if it meant going hungry forever.

There is a small family sitting at the counter on beige barstools: preteen son texting on his cell phone, mother stirring milk into her coffee, father reading the newspaper. It reminds Harmony of the sort of family unit she was beginning to yearn for.

Scott's family welcomed Harmony with open arms when she'd visited last Christmas; they were the sort of people who did things together. Even their arguments were full of love. Ugh. It was so sickeningly cute, she wanted to barf and cry at the same time.

A waitress comes around: bright red hair the color of a pomegranate, hard wrinkles sprawling from exhausted eyes, skin sagging off of thin bones, several necklaces of wooden beads hanging off of her neck. She chews a minty gum, gives a half smile revealing perfectly aligned veneers, although the smile doesn't climb to the eyes, and flips open a small notebook. "What can I get you, honey?" She asks, her voice pours like well trained honey, her eyes not fully focused on Harmony. Her name tag reads _Diane_.

Harmony looks at the menu, sees a bunch of things she can't afford, then says: "Just lemon water, please."

Diane looks a little bored, doesn't bother to write down the order. "Coming up. Might have to wait a while, considering the crowd."

Harmony looks around. Other than the family at the counter, there's a boy from their school, Clayton, and an elderly man, who Harmony assumes is Clayton's grandfather. The diner is practically deserted. Realizing Diane is joking, Harmony forces a smile. Bethany laughs as if it's the funniest thing she's ever heard. Considering how serious Bethany's parents are rumored to be, it might be.

"Thanks." Harmony says but Diane is already walking away.

Something slams down, a fist on a table, and dishes clatter as they regain their balance. She glances over her shoulder to see Clayton, his expression tight on his red face, as he stares at the elderly man. The elderly man reaches forward, pats Clayton's hand. Clayton's eyes seem to brim with tears. He looks up, as if to see if anyone else had noticed his outbreak. His eyes lock on Harmony's but she looks away quickly. Not her business.

"Ugh, he's got problems, I've heard." Bethany says. Harmony wonders _who_ exactly would share gossip with Bethany, of all people. "There's this rumor going around, like, he's supposed to transfer to this really strict boys academy in Texas, for delinquent youth. His parents are totally evil."

Harmony doesn't care really. She's trying not to let the welcoming aroma of Bethany's meal stir her stomach. God forbid her stomach starts roaring.

She doesn't consider herself a thief when she takes money from her mom's purse. Her mom will just spend it at the casino anyway and it isn't like Harmony is using it to buy clothes or a new nail polish. She literally buys groceries. She's thankful that her mom doesn't pay attention to her finances. She'd taken twenty dollars yesterday and already spent it on McDonald's for dinner. She wishes she took a little more because those waffles do sound better than pizza but she'll just buy a pizza later with her mom's credit card, so it's fine.

Bethany bites her rosy red lip in concentration; her hair tumbles off of her shoulder and she tucks it behind her ear. She looks up, at Harmony, and smiles. She hasn't asked Harmony any questions about the project and Harmony is starting to think that Bethany just sort of blackmailed her for the company, which is sort of sad and a little pitiful but also alright with her because she doesn't want to work. She looks at her watch, six o'clock, and wonders if she'll have enough time to hang out with Scott today.

As she picks up her phone something shatters and she lets out a shriek.

Bethany, shocked, looks up. "Harm?" Ugh, great, she's already giving her a nickname.

Diane has dropped a tray full of dirty dishes. The preteen boy has hopped off of his stool to help her pick up the big pieces, although he doesn't kneel in his well-pressed khakis. Diane mutters her _thank you_.

 _It's really cold in here_ , Harmony thinks as she turns around. Would it really kill them to heat up this place? She slouches a little in her chair, pulls her phone out. No new text messages from Scott.

 **Love you**. She types but she doesn't send. How would he react to that? **Love you**. She's never said that to anyone before and truthfully, she isn't sure she means it. But she can feel him drifting away from her sometimes when they're together. He isn't as animated when she tells him stories about her classmates or problems about her family. He sits with this look in his eyes, as if a pane of glass is between them, as if she's a room away. She isn't the marrying type. After seeing the shit show of a marriage her parents have, she thinks that marriage is completely out of the cards, a joke. But she can imagine spending her life with someone like Scott Soto, waking up every morning running hands through his long black hair, kissing his tanned skin, cuddling into his thick build.

Its fear that makes her delete the message. If she loses him… she doesn't even think about it.

She looks up at Bethany again, who sets her pencil down, stretches her arms out over her head. "Actually… I've been meaning to talk to you, Harm." Bethany says, as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation. Harmony looks at Bethany, her cell phone still posed in front of her.

Bethany doesn't get a chance to say what's on her mind.

The bus comes out of nowhere. Harmony hadn't noticed it and from the reacts of the others, no one else seems to have noticed it either. It plunges into the diner like a patron, through the front door, shattering glass and crumpling metal, dining headlong into the family and Diane, acting as a wall, separating the diner in two. For a split second, through the smoke billowing out of the front of it, through the windows, she sees passengers screaming over the groans of destruction the bus has caused. The family and Diane were there one moment, and then the next, they were gone. Or at least they were replaced by red, a lot of red, blood that splatters so far, drops kiss Harmony's cheek. She stands at the same time Bethany does.

Bethany is screaming, shrill piercing screams, her hands in fists by her temples, her head and hair shaking, horror forcing her eyes as wide as possible. There are other screams too, the elderly man, Clayton, and Harmony thinks that she can discern those screams from the others but she isn't sure because they're on the other side of the diner. She is in such shock, she isn't sure if _she's_ screaming or not and barely has time to sort it out. The bus doesn't goes straight, as Harmony thought it would, but it begins to turn, its back wheels scraping across the linoleum floor in an ear shattering shrieking sound, knocking down booths and tables and chairs—

A chair flies ahead, knocks Bethany off of the ground, and sends her sliding across the diner like a rag doll. Harmony wants to move, to see if Bethany is alright, but her legs are like icicles and not just because of the cold. In the brief second that ends Bethany's life, Harmony thinks that she sees blood, a lot of blood, coming from Bethany, spurting out like a hose from her chest. Harmony also notices that the chair hasn't exactly separated itself from Bethany, one of its legs vanished above her right breast.

Harmony turns to the bus just in time to see one of the wheels approaching her and its now that she tries to move but she's too slow and the wheel is too quick and even though it seems like everything is happening in slow motion it crushes her feet, fast, and before she can react, her legs begin to bend in the wrong direction and broken pieces of her bones grind together, and her calves are touching the floor even though she's still standing up and the friction tears the skin from her bones and then her knees snap and before she has time to scream it chomps down on her waist, the wheels lifting up little by little as they suck her under, knocking her breath from her body, before destroying her lungs, and her chest is completely flattened, her ribs caving and pushing up to her neck, and she finds it humorous that she's at least four feet shorter than when she entered the diner but the pain is too much, oh my God, somebody stop it, stop the pain, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP and she hardly notices her eyes popping like grapes and her jaw dislocating and only ten seconds ago she was working on a project—

 **~FD~**

"Coming up. Might have to wait a while, considering the crowd."

Harmony blinks. She nearly falls out of her chair, gasps for a breath, and reaches down to feel her knees, where the pain hurt the most before the obliteration of her nerves numbed anymore pain from bulldozing her. And it's like the pain leaves in quick echoes, within seconds, until it's like the pain is a distant memory, a very distant memory.

Bethany laughs at Diane's joke, a little nervously, as if Harmony's reaction had to do with the punch-line. "Thanks." Harmony says to ward off Diane's intense gaze. "Sorry," She adds. She blinks, presses a hand against her forehead, and her palm is met with sweat. Diane raises an eyebrow but walks away anyway.

What was that; a day dream, a hallucination from a lack of sleep or from over sleeping? Does oversleeping even cause hallucinations? She sits back, her breath becoming more regulated, her heartbeat calming. She looks at Bethany, who she saw just get killed, back to her studies. _God, I need to take a hot bath_ , Harmony thinks. _Maybe stop playing so much Call of Duty—_

A fist slams onto the table behind her. Harmony shrieks, looking behind her. All eyes on the diner turn to her in curiosity. Bethany reaches forward, touches Harmony's hand. "Harm, what's going on with you? Are you sick or…" Harmony retreats her hand, holds it to her body. Now she _knows_ she hadn't imagined that, Clayton slamming his fist onto the table. That _had_ happened in her dream. How was that possible? Her rational mind fought still; people don't have visions of the _future_. Is _that_ what she's considering this to be, a vision from the future? God, they'll come here with white jackets if she really thought that. She looks over at Clayton, whose eyes are fully focused on her now. They hadn't been before, right? He'd gone back to talking to his grandfather in her… _dream_ … hadn't he?

Bethany follows Harmony's gaze, leans in, and begins to whisper: "Ugh, he's got problems, I've heard."

Harmony stares, her body tense. _Please, don't say it_ , she wants to say, but her voice is caught in her throat. Bethany, unable to read social cues, continues, as if they were two conspiratorial girlfriends: "There's this rumor going around, like, he's supposed to transfer to this really strict boys academy in Texas, for delinquent youth."

Harmony finally finds her voice but her words, from _memory_ , spill from her lips. "His parents are totally evil."

"Hey, I was just about to say that. What are you, like, a mind reader or something?" Bethany smirks, leans back, and begins to study again.

It was surreal, like seeing a horror film you've already seen. Harmony knew what Bethany was going to say. She _knew_.

And if she knew that…

She springs up, her panic giving her haste, looks at Bethany, then at the others. "We're all going to die." She says aloud but it hardly comes out as a whisper. Bethany and Clayton seem to be the only two that heard her and Clayton seems to have only read her lips because there's an inquisitive look on his face. The preteen boy, who hardly looked up from his phone, also notices and stares at her now, as if she were museum exhibit, probably from the panicked expression she wore. She thinks about their blood, spilled across the counter. When had that happened? How long did she have? It was going to happen, wasn't it? That bus was going to mow them down like grass, all of them.

"What?" Bethany asks, chuckling nervously.

"The waitress… she's going to drop a tray over there." Harmony points. " _And then this bus is going to come through and it's going to mow all of us down and we're all going to die and we need to get out of here now_ ," Tears stung her eyes. She whimpers, her breath hitched in her chest.

Clayton hears this, definitely, because he's standing up, approaching their table. The preteen boy shakes his mother's shoulder, nods in Harmony's direction. Harmony hears their voices but isn't able to decipher what they're saying because Diane comes out with the tray of dishes, not paying attention to Harmony, in her own little world, and Harmony realizes that the tray wasn't full of dirty dishes but of the family's order and the mother moves her purse to the side to make room for their food.

Harmony, who feels suffocated and afraid, sees everything in slow motion again. The shattering dishes, the family jump, the boy, compelled to hear what Harmony has to say but a slave to his good manners, rushing down and helping the waitress.

Harmony sprints to the family, brushes past Clayton and Bethany, considers what she could tell them to make them move from that spot, and then makes a decision that will save their lives, a decision that comes out of the blue. She lifts the woman's purse from the counter by its leather straps and begins to run.

"Hey!" The mother says.

The preteen boy, his eyes burrowed in confusion, begins to make a grab at Harmony. She holds the purse to her stomach, hears the father step down from the bar stool, hears the mother's high heels click against the linoleum floor, hears the crunch of broken glass underneath the boy's sneakers. Clayton blocks her way, and she sees concern in his eyes. Bethany looks as if Harmony has lost her mind, and also as if Harmony is the coolest person she's ever met. Harmony wonders how long it'll be until the bus comes and as she looks out of the window, she sees the headlights maybe a block away and the terror that seizes her indicates that that _is_ the bus.

"Hey! Stop her!"

She doesn't slow down. She dodges Clayton, moving around him, kicks a chair into his leg, hopes that it slows him down but doesn't incapacitate him. She needs to get them far away.

As she leaves, she sees the old man looking over his seat, his walking cane leans against the booth and she hears a spatula scrape against a stove top and the thought that she can't save them all hits her like a bag of bricks and it almost slows her, except the headlights are gaining on them, like two bright orbs, brighter than the moon, crossing the street. She uses her back to open the glass door and begins to run, the cool air nipping at the tears on her cheeks ( _had she been crying_?) and she runs to the left, away from the diner, away from the bus, away from the vision and she's maybe twenty feet away from the diner when she feels the arms grab her, slam her onto the pavement where her cheek scrapes the ground and the contents of the purse spill.

She kicks up though, not sure that they're far enough, beginning to crawl. She hears them behind her, the hands turn her around: the father, breathing hard, face beet red, strong arms wrapped around Harmony's midsection. The mother looks annoyed, pissed off, shaking her head so many times Harmony wonders if it's going to snap off. The boy is mystified, not angry like his parents, but curious, as if he's never seen something like this before. Clayton breaths hard, his hands on his knees, and when he looks up Harmony sees concern from him, radiating like heat waves. Diane is on her cell phone, presumably calling the police. Her eyes are hidden underneath her hand on her forehead, as if she's trying to massage out a migraine. Bethany blinks several times, as if uncertain how to move, what to do next. She commits their faces to memory for some reason and she doesn't know why.

The boy sees it first; he looks up and says " _Oh my God_." And then he grabs his mother's arm, points at the bus that slams into one of the cars in the parking lot, the bus that shows no sign of stopping. Bethany screams. The father loosens his grip on Harmony's waist, stands up, and begins to move past Harmony. The mother and the son do the same. Diane scrambles in the same direction, although she does stop, grabs a handful of Harmony's shirt, as if to try to lift her up, but her fear overrides her compassion, and she continues to run.

"Granddad?" Clayton asks, looking at his grandfather in the window. Harmony hadn't even noticed Clayton's grandfather in the last window, staring at them and then staring at the bus. Harmony forces herself to her feet, the sting of the cut on her cheek forgotten, and she grabs Clayton by the shoulder, then Bethany by the sleeve. Clayton resists a little, until the bus slams into diner in a thunderous howl and one of the wheels detaches, slamming into the booth of Clayton's grandfather, crushing the table into his midsection, diving him sloppily in two, painting the window glass with blood. Clayton stumbles back as if punched in the face. Harmony continues to pull at him, until she can't feel the heat from the fires, until she can't hear the screams of the passengers, trapped, burning alive, and then she falls into the snow, falls into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

They wrap an itchy wool blanket around his shoulders and try to tell him that it'll be okay. He is hardly aware of their movements around him. It feels like someone has dipped his brain in hardening cement. The cold is sharp in the air, the brisk wind penetrating through the wool around his trembling shoulders. He instinctively pulls the blanket closer to him, staring at the diner from his seat on the back of the ambulance. The stench of the smoke lingers, clinging to Clayton Reese's nostrils, embedding itself into his memory. Sirens wail; a growing group of onlookers begin to border the diner, watching as the firefighters douse the last of the flames, wondering whether or not there are any other survivors in the ruin. Clayton is still too numb to notice that a part of him sort of expects his grandfather to emerge from the ruined diner, the image of the blood not yet penetrating his psyche.

The women weep openly; Bethany and that waitress recount the order of events to the same officer with tears streaming down their red cheeks. A woman hugs her husband as she talks to another officer, burying her head in her husband's chest and the top of her son's head occasionally in order to regain composure. And Harmony Knight… he finds her being strapped to a gurney, being lifted into an ambulance with a sudden urgency that makes Clayton wonder if she's actually in any danger.

Harmony Knight… saved their lives.

The first set of many hot tears begins to fall down Clayton's cheeks. Well, she saved _most_ of their lives. Before he knows it, Bethany has all but tackled him, pushing her arms around his neck, sobbing obnoxiously into his shoulder. He can feel her tears through the blanket, through his shirt. "I'm so sorry," She says. "I'm so sorry."

He wants to ask her what she has to be sorry about. She didn't do… this.

He looks at the diner again. The front is caved in; a cacophony of glass, broken tables and ( _blood_ ) burnt plaster look as if they've been mixed in a giant blender and spewed all over a black and white tiled floor. Little fires rage on still but they're kid-sized in comparison to the one that raged on the bus.

Clayton leans into her, not fully able to bring himself into the present. He's still there, where the bus slams into the diner, and watches it again and again and again, rewinds, pauses, fast-forwards, and skips. It's not until he hears his name being called by a voice so familiar it causes him to let out an almost unearthly wail.

"Mom?" He calls back.

All the resentment he carried toward her before he came to the diner melts quickly like chocolate under the sun and he stumbles clumsily over Bethany's feet to invite this woman into his open arms. Behind her, his father stands, staring at the ruins of the diner, no doubt thinking about his own father, Clayton's grandfather, and suddenly, it's like a dam breaks, that swell of emotions bursting to get out finally make it to the top and Clayton is reduced to tears and weak knees and hard shudders and what he'd blocked out for so long (the sight of his grandfather's blood, the fearful look on his grandfather's face as the table slammed into him and _cut him in half_ _)_ come to surface and are given an exhibit in Clayton's museum of memories.

"Mommy?" Clayton asks again, only he's sure she can barely understand him through his hard crying.

She still pats him on the back, whispers: "It's okay… it's okay, baby."

 **~FD~**

Darren Mathis rubs his wife's cold back.

She leans into him, blows her nose into a handkerchief. She kisses the top of Elliot's head every now and then, so very thankful that they're all _alive_. From what Darren could gather, the chefs and a couple of waitresses in the back hadn't made it. And as for the patrons on the bus… the firemen are probably still counting through the wreckage. The smell of burnt flesh is strong; Darren isn't sure he'll ever eat chicken again. Harley Mathis moves away from his hand, crosses her arms. "This is awful," She murmurs. "Just _awful_."

Elliot hasn't touched his phone at all but Darren hears the constant _pings_ from his friends, who are probably all seeing this on the news. Elliot is putting on a brave face, being the sort of kid who doesn't want his parents or anyone to worry about him, but Darren knows his son well enough to see the cracks of fear in his eyes. Elliot stares at the ambulance, the one that has the purse snatcher in it. "She saved our lives." Elliot says.

Darren doesn't want to refute this because he knows his son is fragile but he can't allow his son to view a thief's actions as something acceptable. "No, she was just in the right place at the right time." Darren says. "God saved our lives."

"She said we were going to die." Elliot countered, a first among their family because Elliot never countered. "She _knew_. I think she was trying to save our lives."

Darren pats his son's shoulder; Elliot's been through a trauma. They all have. It's easy to dive into the deep end of confusion during these times. "What matters is that we're all here right now." Darren says. He puts his hand on Harley's shoulder, pulls his family closer to him. The girl had been odd though and the thought of her gave him a little chill at the base of his spine. "And it's all over." Darren adds as an afterthought, because even though it felt like something was beginning, something menacing in the shadows of the disaster, the hard part ( _surviving_ ) was done.

 **~FD~**

Diane leans against the hood of her car, watches the scene from the parking lot. She puts the cigarette in her mouth, prepares to light it, but her lips are so numb and she's shivering so hard that it escapes her lips and she has to pick it up. She smells like she's been burning on a grill ( _like Freddy in the kitchen_ ). She pulls the clip off of her bun, lets her hair fall to her shoulders, which relives some of the tension in her head.

They were dead, members of the only family she ever really knew. Freddy and Brent, a father/son combo who worked the grills for thirteen years now, and Sharon, her best friend, who had started as a waitress ten years ago around the same time Diane had. There seems to be no end to her tears.

No one comes to comfort her though. Some of the paramedics backed off after insisting that she go to the hospital to be checked out. She gave them something like a growl and they probably thought she wasn't worth the trouble. She'd seen enough hospitals in the last year to last her a lifetime. And she was fine; she had a little cough and her joints ached, but that could be because of the cancer that swam through her and devoured her like a shark. The pain she felt for Freddy, Brent and Sharon couldn't be fixed at a hospital.

People stand across the street, whispering, gawking, some shooting video probably for their social media accounts. Animals. She sits on the hood of her car, inhaling deeply the smoke, wiping her tears away once again. She has half a mind to let off her frustration, her anguish, on the greedy crowd. But she is drained, her energy spilling out from her feet.

The girl, the one who stole the purse, is on a gurney in an ambulance with an oxygen mask on her face. Diane doesn't like to think of herself as clairvoyant. She's had a few instances that no explanation other than a supernatural phenomenon could be accepted, such as that once time her recently deceased ex-husband didn't play the lottery using the numbers that she asked him to pick only for those numbers to be worth millions, or that time when she watched that boy band on television only to feel like all of the happiness was drained from her and then seeing on the news later that evening that the entire band had been killed during a pile-up.

But this… this might have actually been something like _destiny_. A snatched purse saved six lives. It seemed… organized. In this chaotic world, it felt purposeful. Diane supposed she should have been more grateful to the girl. She didn't understand the vehemence that sat like a rock in her chest. Maybe, if she were supposed to have died, she should have. Sure, a second chance at life seemed like a blessing to someone who didn't have to keep regular doctors visits. But what did Diane have to look forward to? Months of chemotherapy? And Diane, who was tired of trying to feel optimistic about the chemo, was on the verge of saying 'fuck it'. If death wants her, he can have her.

The girl saved her life, but who said she wanted to be saved?

 **~FD~**

In the hospital room the doctor looks up from his clipboard, tells her that her vitals are good, that the small blistering burn on her shoulder will heal up nicely with the ointment, that she is a very lucky girl. She wants to believe him. But Bethany doesn't feel lucky. She feels like she cheated at a game but she doesn't know how. She can't stop blinking and she asks for eye drops. The taste of smoke is still on her tongue. The burn itches a little as it gradually becomes painful. She doesn't feel it. She doesn't really feel anything. She's been sleepwalking through this thing, from the explosion to the ambulance ride, to the awkward reunion with her parents. It's only now that she's given any thought to Harmony.

"Bethany… he said you can get dressed now." Her father says. He squeezes her hand, kisses her on her forehead. She blinks.

"Harmony?" She asks, her voice scratchy.

Her parents exchange glances. "We'll talk in the car." Her father says. He hands her a pile of clean clothes he'd bought from home. Leave it to father to be completely prepared in the middle of a crisis. Her mother nods, pressing a few fingers to her mouth, suppressing a sob, which makes Bethany's heart hammer in her chest.

"Is she… dead?" She whispers.

"No." Her mother shakes her head. "No, no. I'm sorry. I'm just… so _happy_ that you're here."

"Happy to be here." Bethany's reply is hollow. She changes from the hospital gown when they've left the room. Before she leaves, she sobs silently into the gown, hoping that no one hears her.

 **~FD~**

"How many survivors?" Harmony asks.

The attending nurse, who is taking her blood pressure, takes a glance at Harmony, presses her lips together. "I don't know." She replies, but her tone is so cold that Harmony decides not to ask her anymore questions. The police have already questioned her, twice, about the purse she grabbed. She wonders if charges would be pressed against her. That would be just fan-fucking-tastic, wouldn't it? Go to jail for doing the right thing. She could imagine standing in court, pleading her case: "Please, judge, I only grabbed it because I had a vision of the crash and I had to do something to save them all." _If I said that, I wouldn't have to worry about jail_ , she thinks. _They'd have a straitjacket with my name on it_. She isn't even sure that that's what really happened.

Maybe it was a hunch. A really vivid hunch.

But that didn't seem right either.

Something happened thought.

Harmony hopes that her count of survivors is too low, that others made it out of the wreckage, but doubt is a dark cloud over her. Because if her number is accurate, six people survived.

She makes lucky number seven.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The faults of the trailers homes, exasperated by the rugged road, are shaded by shadows of the snow covered trees that surrounds the park. Bethany walks down that road, snow crunching under her boots, her pace hurried as catches stares from residents who stand outside of their trailers. At the trailer next door to Harmony's home, a group of college aged guys stand together, their combined stench of sweat and beer reaching Bethany just a few feet away, even in this cold air.

One of them actually catcalls her, even though she wears a parka and sweat pants and she's sniffling like crazy. Is catcalling _really_ still a thing?

Through the dusty window frame, Bethany sees the flicker of a television. She hears someone moving around, dishes clinking together, a fork scraping across a plate. The group of guys resume their conversation, sharing a few snickers, probably at her expense, and she doesn't acknowledge them. She lifts her fist to knock, not seeing a doorbell anywhere, and stops herself. What if this is a bad idea? What if Harmony wants nothing to do with her?

Ever since the diner _incident_ last week, it's almost like Harmony dropped off the planet. She's been so busy with interviews that she hasn't had time to seek Harmony out.

It wasn't until she arrived at school, after having taken a couple of days off, when everyone, literally just about _everyone_ , pulled her aside to hug her or console her or give her whatever else they thought that she needed, that she realized Harmony hadn't been in English class, or any of her other classes. When she asked, someone told her that Harmony hadn't returned to school. Harmony hadn't answered her texts, as if she ever would, but still, Bethany would have been content with a ' _yea, I'm okay_ ' or _something_.

 _What am I doing here_?

This is her Plan Z.

This is her only other option. If she can't find Harmony here…

She raps her knuckles on the door, waits. The volume of the television lowers. Heavy footsteps approach. The lock clicks and metal door creaks open. The man who answers is shirtless, faded tattoo up and down his arms, beard unkempt, pot belly exposed. He's a toothpick in the mouth away from being a stereotypical hick. He rubs his bald head, stares down at her with mild disinterest. There's something carnivorous in his gaze and she nearly takes a step back. Another shadow forms behind him, a woman with hair tied back in a loose ponytail, a blue sundress, pale translucent skin, familiar eyes that hone in on Bethany. Harmony's eyes.

"Is Harmony home?" Bethany's usually chipper voice wavers as she looks back and forth at them. Sunlight recedes slightly, taking it's scant warmth with it. A wind carries the start of snowfall; flakes scatter around her.

"Who are you?" His voice, deep and gravelly, full of suspicion.

"Bethany. Lambert. Bethany Lambert." Were it not for the screen door between them, she would have offered a hand. She clears her throat, straightens her posture. "I take English with Harmony."

"You were there, weren't you? I recognize you, from the hospital. And the news." Harmony's mother's voice is like honey, quick and smooth, well-assured.

Bethany nods and the inquisitive look in the eyes of Harmony's mother morphs into something like pity. The woman reaches around the man (Harmony's father?) and pushes the door open. "Come in, I'll put on a pot of coffee."

"I wasn't planning on staying long-" Bethany starts.

"What'd you come for then?" The man stares at Bethany as if he knows her. Is that disgust in his eyes? Awe?

Bethany rubs her elbow, thinks about how she didn't tell her parents, or anyone for that matter, that she was coming here. Stranger danger. But she finds herself taking the handle of the door anyway, stepping into the narrow hallway of the trailer.

"I have her homework." Bethany answers the man's question. She strains a smile, waits a beat, takes a step forward. He steps aside as she passes. "All from last week."

Harmony's mother fills the scoops coffee grounds into the pot, turns it on. "I know, it's an odd time for coffee-"

"No, it's fine. I drink a lot of coffee when I study at night." The trailer is cramped; there are small paintings in cheap glass frames of canoes on lakes and autumn leaves and grassy hills. Hardly any family portraits. The kitchen is tiny, the table practically a booth, with dull red and black checkered cloth on its seats and a cracked Formica table, yellow like phlegm. Bethany slips her back pack from her shoulders, slides into the booth, sets the bag on the surface.

The man's eyes never leave her and she feels them. Boldly, she meets his gaze when Harmony's mother's back is turned. He crosses his arms, scoffs, shakes his head. Returning to the recliner, which is practically a hop and skip away from the kitchen, his footsteps are heavy. The chair creaks under his weight. He points the remote to a forty inch flat screen, raising the volume to some game show.

Harmony's mother takes two mugs from the cabinet, her back to Bethany, who feels awkward in the silence. After a few more torturous minutes, Harmony's mother pours the coffee, hands Bethany one of the warm mugs and holds the other with both hands. She sits back against the counter top. "Hope you don't mind it black. We've just run out of sugar." She gives an apologetic smile. The man grunts at the television. The woman must have caught Bethany staring at him because she leans in, says: "Don't mind Lars. He's a little rough around the edges but once you get to know him-"

"Don't apologize for me." His powerful tone, with a sharp and rigid edge, startles Bethany.

Harmony's mother merely rolls her large, almost doll-like, eyes. She brings the coffee mug to her nose, the steam wafts into her nostrils. Her shoulders relax and her eyelids rise slightly, revealing the prominence of her green irises, as her attention focuses on the high school girl at her table. "I'm Michelle, by the way. I don't think I introduced myself, unless Harmony made that introduction for me?"

Bethany shakes her head, tries to ignore the flicker of hurt that passes Michelle's face. "That's alright." Her voice becomes slightly lower, softer. "I don't imagine she talks about us much."

"Honestly, I wouldn't know." Bethany admits. "Harmony and I aren't exactly…"

"No, no, I know. You don't seem like my daughter's type of company."

Bethany isn't sure what to say about that.

Michelle holds out her hand. "No, I'm sorry, don't feel insulted. I mean, you seem confident and studious. Harmony's a smart girl but… I don't care for some of the _friends_ she brings home. None of them are like you. Take that as a compliment." Michelle takes a sip of her coffee, smiles. Bethany smiles back but her stomach twists and her mouth feels dry. The coffee smells cheap, stale, not like the imported coffee she drinks at home. She manages to take a hearty sip of it without wincing because Michelle seems nice and she doesn't want to insult her.

"Is she here?"

Michelle shakes her head. "No. She just leaves in the morning. She doesn't grace us with an explanation these days, not without me asking first. And this week… well, understandingly, I haven't pushed her for answers." Michelle's frown becomes deep. In a step, she takes a seat at the booth. Michelle is tall, skinny, so Bethany doesn't have to make room for her.

The heat kicks in, howling through the vents, and Bethany feels hot, too hot, like she's surrounded by fire, and the chef, and Clayton's grandfather-

She catches herself, grounds herself to this trailer, these people, this reality.

 _I'm alive_. _It's over_. _I'm alive_. _It's over_.

"Harmony saved my life." Bethany blurts out.

The air in the trailer goes still. Even Lars seems to be holding his breath. Michelle looks down at the mug. Her bottom lip trembles. "We haven't been able to talk about it. Harmony was withdrawn before but this last week… I don't think she's said two words to me. Lars blames-"

"Don't speak for me."

" _He blames_ what happened at the diner for her behavior." Michelle's voice rises an octave. Her vision tunnels to the back of her husband's head before directing her attention back to Bethany. Bethany manages to take another few sips, feeling the slight jolt of energy in her veins, wishing she brought gum to take this bitter taste out of her mouth. "But I think there's something else. Harmony seems sort of..." Michelle looks like she's struggling for the word.

"Lost?" Bethany offers.

Michelle nods. "Lost. Like she needs answers that we can't give her. The police say that she stole a purse, but the couple aren't going to press charges? She hasn't said why she would do something like that. My daughter doesn't steal, she isn't a _thief_." Michelle's loses some of her composure; shoulders shake, fingers tremble, eyes glisten. She inhales, her nostrils flaring as she leans her head back, as if to put the menacing tears back inside. She looks at Bethany again. "I wondered if you could… give us some insight on what happened-"

The recliner creaks; Lars stands up, shooting daggers with his glare, first to Michelle, then Bethany. His sprint to one of the bedrooms down the hall vibrates the entire trailer. Michelle stares ahead and doesn't make another move until he slams the door behind him. "He doesn't like to talk about it." She says finally. "He thinks that if we keep bringing it up, that she'll keep pushing us away until either she or we or all of us end up over the edge. We've been married for twenty years. I know when my husband's scared. He's scared that we're going to lose our daughter to whatever this thing is." She rubs her arm. Michelle must have a lack of friends because the woman just swan dives into these personal topics with Bethany, who is practically a complete stranger. "Maybe it's just grief, I don't know. When I was sixteen, I watched an accident happen. My boyfriend, actually, at this house party. He drank so much that night and he just bought this new car and public awareness for drunk driving was slowly rising but barely a thing. I took his keys from him earlier so that he wouldn't get in his car because even then it just seemed like common sense and he was hardheaded. He found them though. Asked my friends about my whereabouts at the party. Played detective. Because even drunk he knew me well. I watched him pull out of the driveway. Watched him get a hundred feet from my house and slam into a telephone pole. I was running before the fire took him." Bethany shivers, thinking about the chef. Michelle isn't able to prevent the tears from rolling down her cheeks. "You know, he was still alive, and I couldn't reach him." She turns her arm over, reveals a white root-like scar that twists and snakes up her forearm. "Hurt myself real bad trying to though. But he had taken one of the liquor bottles from the party with him and set it down on the passenger's seat to light his cigarette. When he crashed, it must have gotten all over and with the cigarette…" She sighs, clears her throat. "Well, I've been there, you know. I know what you two are going through. Somewhat. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the questions. If I did this, would he have done that? But Harmony… she's got survivor's guilt but she's got something else too. I saw a library book on her bed yesterday, _Sciences of_ _Visions and Premonitions_ , or something like that."

"We all grieve differently." Bethany could kick herself for only providing such a stock answer.

"Maybe." Michelle taps her fingers. "I feel like there's something else going on. I feel like… she hasn't properly grieved _yet_ , honestly. Keeping that in… it's not healthy." She slides her hand toward Bethany's, gives it a squeeze. "Could you- I'd like to know what happened. _If_ you're comfortable with it. It'd help me understand."

"Mrs. Knight… Michelle… I don't know if it will. I don't understand it myself." Michelle begins to pull her hand away, defeated, but Bethany tightens her grip. "But I'll tell you anyway."

 **~FD~**

The ceiling fan's blades whirl lazily above her. It makes a creaking sound, it's base weak. Harmony imagines it becoming unhinged, slicing her up on Scott's bed, her blood painting his walls, his windows.

Why does Scott keep the fan on? She's freezing and the window is already open and he sits at his computer desk without a shirt. She can see his rib bones against his skin and if he's cold from the frosty air, he doesn't show it. She sits, using a fist to prop herself up on the memory foam mattress, tossing back the thick covers. As she swings her bare legs over the side, her entire body is greeted with a toe-numbing chill that makes her audibly shudder.

Out of the window, a bright full moon hovers over the city from a dark sky. Scott's apartment building sits on a hill, only a ten minute drive from his college campus, and the view of the city is majestic, at least to Harmony. She reaches down, throws on one of his sweatshirts with the yellow logo of a bear on front. She pulls up her faded jeans, slips into her socks. Scott's curses, pumping the buttons on the game controller, licking the corner of his mouth as he concentrates.

Coming here seems like a mistake. She keeps looking at Scott, his belongings, trying to remember what it was that made him so attractive just a week ago. She's been dating him for a few months now; is it normal to have these thoughts? She's been questioning him, asking him about his thoughts on life, on death, on the supernatural, and he either responds with a chuckle, as if he's not taking her seriously, or with annoyance, as if he's been working all day and she's some curious six year old pestering him with a million questions.

 _What did I see in him_ _seven days ago?_

"You leaving?" He asks, not looking away from the screen.

Her jaw hangs. "Are you serious, Scott?"

He presses pause, tears the gaming headset from his head, tosses it on the desk, swings the desk chair around. His eyes level with hers and is that that annoyance in his stare? "What's the problem now?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He gives her a look, like _what do you think_ , _isn't it obvious_? "You've been on my case all week."

Harmony reaches for her sneaker, slips her foot in. "It's, like, ten degrees out. We're going to catch pneumonia if you don't close the damn window. And hey, it's _ten degrees outside_. Offer me a ride home."

He gives an exasperated look, then rubs the corner of his eyes.

"Stay the night." Scott says but there's no eagerness or enthusiasm about it.

She grabs her other sneaker, resists the urge to throw it at his head. "Did you forget about my parents?"

"Call them."

"Yea," She gives him a dry laugh. She snatches her coat off of the hanger in his closet. The hanger spins before landing on the floor. "Tell my parents that I'm dating someone in college a week after I went through the most terrifying ordeal of my life. They're already losing their shit over there. This will sink the ship." Harmony grabs the cold wood of the window frame and pulls it shut, reducing the freezing howls of the wind to muffles. "Real smart, Scott."

Scott's winces, as if stung. He goes to his closet, puts on a sweater. "I'm really trying here." His voice is low, steady, hurt. "I've been here all week with you. I've bought you dinner. I've tried asking you about it. I've let you brood in silence. I've been here for you more than anyone else because what you went through- it's scary shit. You're not meeting me half way. You're spending more time ragging on me like I'm the one who caused it to happen."

She puts her other arm in her sleeve, pulls her collar up. "I think we should break up."

Scott's jaw hardens slightly. His eyes grow wide, then his eyelids lower slightly as his focus narrows to her face. "Why?"

"We're- _I'm_ not in the same frame of mind as I was a week ago."

" _What_ … _does that even mean_?" Scott looks bewildered now, aggravated. He holds up a finger. "You know what… never mind. I don't care anymore." He grabs his car keys off of the desk. She looks at the keys in his hand, then into his eyes. He works it out in his head and chuckles when he solves it. "Oh, you wrote me off as the asshole boyfriend. You honestly think that I'd make you call a taxi in ten degree weather? Right?" His voice is bitter, jagged. He sits on the edge of the bed, puts his boots on. "I thought this was the real deal. How can you think so low of me?" His words crack; he sounds like he's going to cry.

 _Please don't_.

She just wants to leave, to go home and drink her parents liquor, reread that book.

"Do you love me?" He asks.

Harmony walks past him, walks into the hallway of the apartment. Scott's roommate sits in the living room, pretending that he hasn't heard any of their argument.

 **~FD~**

From her bedroom window, Harmony watches his headlights of Scott's car disappearing, back to his dorm room in Glendale. Her parents haven't asked questions and she hasn't offered any explanations.

So far, so good.

She chases away thoughts of Scott, of the Presley Diner, of the _other_ six, by plucking her book from her back pack and lays in bed without getting undressed. She flips through chapters of paranormal encounters, seances, reincarnation. The premonitions mentioned in this book are more about odd feelings; a case of insistent coughing before being trapped in a fire, another case where a woman heard crashing waves and tasted salt water a week before her twin sister drowned on a yacht.

She rereads the book, tosses it aside, puts her hands on her forehead. Nothing to even remotely close to explaining how she _lived_ through her own death. Because it wasn't just a dream. Her fiery death was violent, vivid, and painful.

Harmony sits on the edge of her bed, clutching the sheets, staring at her door. She _can't_ have been the only one to have gone through this. Because it _did_ happen, regardless of the doubt that creeps in.

 _I_ _t_ did _happen_.

 _How_?

She pulls her laptop off of her dresser. It's an older model and it takes a while to load and connect to the internet. She types "PREMONITION ACCIDENT" in the search bar and sits back. The first few suggestions don't seem relevant; variations of topic from that library book, personal opinions about the supernatural. Then, her eyes catches something, a news article; something about a boy named Alex Browning.

 **~FD~**

Harley's entire body shudders next to Darren.

He gives her a sideways glance from behind his reading glasses. Places a finger in between the pages of his book, like a bookmark. "Everything alright?" He asks.

She sits up in bed, presses her palm to her sweaty forehead. "Did you leave a window open or something?"

"Want me to check?"

She waits a second, looks around their quiet room. "No." She feels light, her stomach empty, her skin dry, her hair thick. "I'll go." She gets out of bed, throws on a robe. "I don't feel it now." She looks around, then at him. "It reminded me…" She waits for him to respond, rubbing her palms nervously against her thighs. Judging from the look in his eye, he knew how that sentence would end. They've yet allow themselves the relief of a therapeutic conversation between man and wife. She still doesn't know how he feels about what happened.

He escapes, back to the pages of his novel, leaving her feeling exposed, vulnerable, and pathetic.

 _I haven't slept well in a week_. _I'm stressing about Elliot_. _I've_ _haven't sold a house in a year_. _I'm_ _driving myself insane_. The chill she felt was a draft, nothing more. It's frostbite weather outside. She's making a mountain out of a molehill. "Never mind," She attempts a smile. His attempt at one is brief. "I'll be right back."

In the hallway, she pushes Elliot's door a crack. The light from his aquarium illuminates his studious face. His eyes shift to hers and he sighs. "Yea," He says to frown she gives him. "I can't sleep either."

She opens his door further, leans her thin shoulder against the door frame. "Sandwich?"

Elliot shrugs. _Why not_?

Downstairs, she slathers a layer of peanut butter onto a piece of a wheat bread, pushes it against another, sets the plate on the kitchen island in front of him. Elliot isn't focused on the sandwich though. With his elbows on the island, he sits at one of the stools, staring at his mother, his eyes trained on her movements. She meets him on the opposite side of the island, setting her plate across from his, mimicking his study.

"Do _you_ want to talk about it?" He asks.

Seven days ago, which is practically another life, she would have thought this whole scenario absurd. Her son consoling _her_? She hates this.

But there's comfort in it too. Seven days later, her son is first to ask this borderline taboo question. Her husband treats it like a fender bender and hasn't batted an eye toward it. Elliot has always been intuitive but what damage has this done to him?

 _How much pain does Elliot see in me_? _Am I that transparent or is he growing up faster than I can keep track of_? _Is he growing up faster than he has to_?

She bites into the thick peanut butter sandwich, chews slowly. Her throat is dry as it goes down slowly. She pounds her chest, coughs as not to choke, then she pours milk in two glasses and hands one to him. She licks the inside of her mouth when her comfort returns. Elliot is still waiting for an answer. "I'm grateful," She says.

 _I shouldn't be here_.

This is less a thought, more a feeling. She felt it at the grocery store, two days after the diner. In the middle of the aisle, holding a can of pears, it occurred to her that her life story was being rewritten from it's original text. At that moment, she felt like an intruder, someone who'd been banished from the island and found a way to cheat the system, to sneak back in. The feeling left her airy, in a way, as if she were she was waiting for the universe to correct itself.

"I'm not talking about that." Elliot springs up from his wooden bar stool. The source of his excitement was obvious to Harley; she isn't the only one who tried to keep a lid on the accident. "I mean the girl. Harmony Knight."

Harley blinks. Harmony Knight… the girl who stole her purse? "Good timing." Harley says, half jokingly. Elliot's excitement falters, dims like a candlelight struggling in the wind. "What do you mean, honey?"

He looks up at her and he looks tired, wise even. " _Mom_ ," His high voice cracks in that adolescent way, reminding Harley that there is a timer and that one day she'll wake up and find that her child has become a man. "She said ' _we're all going to die and we need to get out of here now_ ' and that's when she grabbed your purse. She wasn't trying to steal it."

 _Oh no._ Harley's heart skips a beat. She's become one of _those_ parents, hasn't she? Elliot hasn't acted out, right? He's kept his studies up. He's been quiet and she's noticed that he hasn't treated his phone with the same importance. There were no in-your-face signs that the accident had a traumatic effect on him. But she must have missed _something_.

"Honey..." She begins.

"I'm not making it up."

"Honey, I'm not saying that. Harmony saved our lives, and you're right, we should acknowledge that, but she's seems like a troubled girl. And… and—and sometimes, when people go through something as traumatic as what we went through, sometimes details become mixed up. She might have been saying something else-"

"You're talking to me like I'm eight. I know what she said. I think we should talk to her, ask her about it."

"What do you mean?"

"Do you feel weird? Like what happened was the start of something." Elliot tugs at the bottom of his t-shirt. He hesitates, almost as if he's embarrassed. "I heard her and ever since then… I keep feeling these drafts, like in rooms with closed windows. Felt one an hour ago. I don't know why but it feels connected. It scares me."

Her smile wavers. "You've got nothing to be scared of."

"How do you know?" He asks. He picks apart his sandwich, rolling the bread into little balls, stacking them on the side of his plate. "I want to call her."

Harley pushes the fear down, down, choosing to focus on the gleam of youthfulness in his eyes. _He's got an imagination, that's all_. _Thirteen is a little old for stories, but maybe this is his way of coping_. _And I'm just really tired_. _I imagined that draft earlier_. _My mind is playing tricks on me_.

"Honey, I don't think that's such a good idea. She's troubled and…" She was going to say something about the draft, about it maybe being in his head, but even before she can say it, it feels like a lie. Elliot's face is placid, alert. He doesn't look like he's slipped into la-la land.

 _What if he's onto something_?

"She saved our lives." He repeats but it's to himself, as if he's the only one he needs to convince. "I'm not hungry." He pushes the plate toward her with an uncontrolled strength. It knocks into his full glass of milk, sending it sailing off of the edge. Harley jumps to her left as the glass shatters beside her foot.

"Sorry!" His eyes are wide.

She holds her hands out, forcing a smile, pretending that she isn't tired or worried or anything other than doting mother. "It's fine, superman."

He fearful expression softens. He even manages a smile, rolling his sleeve up, flexing a muscle.

His smile calms her.

The milk spreads, nips at her toes. "Do me a favor, bring me the flashlight under the bathroom sink?"

Elliot pushes back the bar stool, jogs softly toward the bathroom.

Footsteps upstairs; Darren's up.

Harley takes the dish towel from the sink, gathers the largest shards in it first, then scoops up the smaller ones with a gentle touch. The milk soaks through it; it's cold, numbing the tips of her fingers, reminding her of _the draft_. She dumps the shards in the kitchen trash can on the opposite side of the kitchen.

Darren's bare feet slap against the kitchen tile, just as she's brushing the cold milk from her hands. "Any milk left?"

He moves like a man on a mission. Harley pivots in his direction as he reaches one of his long arms toward the refrigerator, where the visibility of the tiny shards of glass and milk are shielded by the shadow of the island.

"Wait," She says.

She takes a step forward. A shard of glass, the size of a bottle cap, slices through the top of her foot and she screams. She raises her foot, takes an unsteady hop toward the bar stool.

"Mom!"

This startles her and she turns around on her one good foot just as Darren reaches for the bar stool Elliot pushed out, probably to move it out of the way before she trips.

Her balance falters. She hops in the puddle of her blood, slides an inch on her heel, and suddenly become air bound.

It takes three seconds for her to fall. Surprisingly, a lot can happen in three seconds.

Her husband, holding onto the edge of the bar stool, can himself slip in a small puddle of milk. The bar stool, originally meant to be moved, can become the crutch to save his life.

The bar stool can land on it's side, vertically, aligning with Harley's body shape.

Her elbow can slams into one of the legs, it's force of impact both snapping the wood and fracturing her elbow.

A piece of the leg with a jagged edge is redirected by the nudge of her elbow, spinning at an upward angle that matches the direction of her descent, aligning with the base of her spine mere milliseconds before she lands, making the impale seem almost simultaneous.

Gravity can push the wood through her back, past the jungle of organs in her chest, and help pull it through her front, ripping the fabric of her robe, protruding out of the top of her right breast, narrowly missing her heart, adding two more seconds to the end of her life.

Her son can stop running toward her and start screaming.

Her head can rest against the kitchen floor.

Her husband can make a sound she's never heard from him before.

Two seconds is all it took for Harley Mathis to land herself in this precarious position.

As she lays there, clinging onto the last few seconds of life, a wintry type of draft lightly rustles her hair. Elliot crawls toward her on his hands and knees, tears and snot pouring from his beet red face. She tries to see his face, to tell him that there _is_ a draft, that he was right, that even though it wouldn't have made a difference in the end she should have listened to him, but instead of words, blood spills from her lips, an unfortunate consequence of nearly severing her tongue during the impact.

As she fades from the pain and the fear of death, the last thing she feels is Elliot's hand making it's way into hers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It's Granddad's suit.

The jacket is baggy: the pants faded, the shoes dull. The suit looks so odd on him. Mother tried to tell him how fantastic he looked, that Granddad was always proud of him.

Wearing this feels like a betrayal.

Clayton looks away from the mirror, toward the closed window. Thick, fluffy snow gathers at the glass. It's becoming more and more difficult, avoiding the tears that accompany Granddad's memory. Hard to do since the funeral was held this morning. He's spent the last few hours in the company of sniffling relatives who'd barely visited, relatives who felt more like strangers. He spent the day looking at each of these people, his _family_ , trying to figure out why they were picked to stay instead of Granddad. The bags under his eyes are puffy, the dark purple of night.

He's scared to sleep, scared to see the blood, the intestines. Not that it matters. He relives those final moments of Granddad's life every time he closes his eyes.

At least awake he has a fighting chance of blocking it out, if only for a few minutes. He's trapped in his nightmares when he sleeps, the memory more vivid, the blood more gratuitous, his Granddad's anguish more painful. The only way he wakes up is in the middle of a scream, soaked in sweat, calling Granddad's name.

"You look like him."

He hadn't heard Mother come in, tries not to look surprised when he faces her. She uses the door frame as support, the cocktails throwing her off balance. Arms crossed over her own unchanged funeral attire, her eyes center on him, more specifically the suit, in admiration and recollection. "Funny that all you got from him were his looks. You'd think some of that personality would have rubbed off on you." There is a slender cigarette between her slender fingers and she takes a drag, smoke escaping from the corner of her mouth. "What did he tell you? Before it happened?"

Tears sting Clayton's eyes, recalling the moment. The last decent moment with Granddad is a memory held sacred. She's the last person he wants to share it with. "What does it matter?"

"It matters to me. Watch your tone." She enters by pushing herself up with her elbow, stepping over a pile of dirty laundry. She smells of liquor and a heavy handed spritz of perfume. Her fingers graze the suit jacket's fabric. Her nostrils flare and her eyes begin to shine and Clayton forces himself to look away. Her hand rises, cups Clayton under the chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "He was there because of you." Her voice has an edge; pure disgust. Her upper lip lifts in a sneer as she studies her son's face. Clayton turns away. She focuses on the suit again but this time when she reaches for it, he pulls away from her reach. She nods, taking another drag, blowing smoke further into his room. "I don't know what he saw in you. Wish he would have let the rest of us in on the _secret_." Her breath is hot and rancid.

Clayton doesn't speak but for once, he agrees with his mother. Clayton will never understand why Granddad chose to take him under his wing.

Granddad was one in a million.

"What did he say?"

 _Granddad's smile is sort of sad._ " _You have to forgive_. _Tell your parents that you forgive them, Clay_."

 _Clayton slams his fist on the table_. _He wants to cry._ " _Are you even listening to me_? _Why should I_?"

 _Granddad reaches out and covers Clayton's fist with his frail one. "No one lives forever. Your parents are good_ _people in their own way_ _. One day, they'll come around and_ _they'll_ _have to forgive themselves. It'll be easier on all three of you if you forgive them first. Trust me-"_

 _Then, Harmony grows hysterical._

 _Clayton stands up, partly to help Harmony, partly to stop listening to Granddad's delusion. Granddad is supposed to be on his side, not his parents. "Be right back." He tells Granddad over his shoulder._

Clayton buries his hands into the pants pockets; their deep and wide and keeping them in the pockets makes him feel slightly closer to Granddad.

"Dad was a fixer. I think he clung to you because he thought you were broken." Mother responds. She takes another drag, looks him up and down. "I don't think that you're broken. Broken things can be fixed. I think that you're shattered." The four walls that enclose his walls are bare; no posters, no photographs, no inspirational quotes. She presses her palm against his writing desk. "Like, how you've never decorated your room."

"I tried, two years ago, remember." Clayton watches his mother struggle to erase the memory from her mind. "Father tore down _those_ posters."

The way she glares at him is like windchill. A clump of ash from the end of her cigarette drops onto the hardwood floor.

 _One day they'll come around and have to forgive themselves_.

But when? Clayton is tired of waiting. He's tired of their sneers, their constant disappointment, the secrecy.

Mother's bony finger is thrust an inch away from his nose. "Not. Another. Word." She turns her nose up as she gives the room another quick examination. Her heels thud against the carpet in the hallway, her exit giving him relief.

 **~F** **D~**

 _The crunching._

 _The crackling._

 _The heat._

 _The smell._

 _The blood._

 _The screams._

He screams, clenching onto a fistful of sheet, the sweat on his back chilling his entire body.

The doorbell rings.

Clayton's breathing is wild, erratic, then tamed within a few seconds. He dosed off for ten hours, according to his alarm clock. The suit shifts uncomfortably on his body as he stretches.

"Hi!"

He could recognize that voice from anywhere and his entire body fills with dread.

He doesn't bother changing his suit before going downstairs; _she's_ the guest.

She's browsing in the library, her back to him. She wears white furry ear muffs over her tight ponytail, a red double breasted coat, beige denim jeans, insulated arctic boots. He knocks a couple of fingers against the wooden door frame to alert her.

"Hi!" Bethany's grin stretches wide. He hates it. No one is _that_ happy.

He stifles a yawn. "What do you want?"

"Your… um… Terra, I think her name is? She let me in."

"She's our live-in maid. We'll probably have to fire her now."

Even her laugh is hardly convincing. "That's a good one."

"What. Do. You. Want?"

The flowers she points to sit on the piano, a dozen roses in a cream colored vase, pulling in sunlight from two arched windows. "I'm sorry about your grandfather."

It would be nice to punch something right now. The way she moves, the quick scans of the portraits on the library's wall, how she peels off her glove to absorb warmth from the fireplace; his anger is beginning to spike.

"I don't want them."

A hand flies to her heart. "Excuse me?"

"Take them with you." The stems crunch when he yanks them from the vase. Water drips onto the carpet. "I don't want them."

"Clayton… don't be like-"

"Do you want them or not?"

Her hands find her hips and her head shakes. "This is ridiculous."

His shrug is light, his steps weightless. She doesn't make a sound when he throws the roses in the fire but a vein throbs in her forehead.

The smile he wears is is most alluring. His hands clasp together and he bows at the waist. "So, do you need anything else?"

"What the actual fuck, Clayton." The glove is pulled back onto her hand, then tightened into a fist. "Can I ask you a question?"

"No."

"Why do you hate me?"

Clayton pretends to think. "I don't hate you."

"You don't?"

"No. _Everyone_ hates you."

The applause he receives is slow, cynical. "Bravo. Proud of yourself?"

"Just leave." He guides the way, holding an open hand toward the door.

She zips up her coat, adjusts her earmuffs. "I thought you were different, Clayton."

He suppresses a groan. "This is getting old."

The perfume she wears smells like Chanel, reminds him of his mother. Bethany actually applied makeup today, the foundation a bit of an improvement, the lipstick mild, the eye shadow generous. Her breath smells like mint. Her face is an inch from his. "We're connected, whether you like it or not."

Is she really going down this route? "Because of the accident?"

"I have nightmares too." Bethany is only a couple of inches shorter than Clayton and their gaze is almost rests at an even level. "I dream about what should have happened."

"What are you talking about?"

"We weren't supposed to leave that diner."

Clayton licks the roof of his mouth. "I need you to-"

"Can you feel that?"

Clayton is two seconds away from telling her to hit the road when a gust of cold wind ruffles the brown hairs on his head. It lasts for a second or two. Her ponytail flips. The fuzz on her earmuffs dance. Her teeth begin to chatter. The curtains on the closed window don't move. The flame from the fireplace remains untroubled by the wind. The tips of his fingers become numb.

"Something's happened." There is something knowing in her words, because he feels it too, which is bizarre because it's probably just the wind from another part of the house.

 _I shouldn't be here_ , he thinks.

That's when she makes his blood run cold. "I shouldn't be here." Hearing the words from his thoughts come from her lips makes him take a step back.

Someone runs down the hallway. Terra, with unkempt hair and a difficult time catching her breath, clasps a hand on the door frame.

"What is it?" Clayton asks.

 **~FD~**

She's not a stupid girl.

The first sign was that night, at the diner. She was right next to Harmony. She might have been the _only_ one who heard Harmony clearly.

And, lo and behold, everything that Harmony said came true.

She needed answers.

She searched for Harmony for an entire week but Harmony didn't want to be found. Harmony was hiding something, the truth, and if there's anything Bethany was good at, it was digging up the truth. Going to Harmony's nasty ass trailer was a last ditch effort but finding out about that library book… it was the step in the right direction. It didn't take long for Bethany to discover the stories about the other cases. The news articles were a decent start to her search but it wasn't until she discovered a blog by a J. Bludworth that she discovered the payload. Theories on each of the cases, the similar patterns connecting them. Was this what was happening to them? Bethany isn't a stupid girl and at first the whole idea of death coming after the survivors who cheated it…. it seemed fantastical.

But as she sits in Clayton's living room watching Harley Mathis's face enlarge on the sixty inch screen, she smiles.

The smile is brief, as brief as her elation toward the theory being right. She smiles because now she has a leg up on the competition. But three problems arise: Harmony is still nowhere to be found and only Harmony would know the death order. She doesn't know what number she falls on this list. How long until the others figure it out?

Bethany sits cross legged on the couch, noticing how Clayton gnaws at his thumbnail.

What does he know?

What has he guessed?

She thinks that she's figured it out, the way to cheat death, at least this time. She plans on living until a ripe old age; her youth has been squandered. She's been a square block trying to fit into a circle hole practically all of her life.

All she has to do is take out the next person in line, or one of the next people. And when her time comes again, she'll take out whatever survivor is still standing. That's the appetizer.

The entree will come in the form of a sacrifice; someone who wasn't originally meant to die, thus throwing a wrench in 'death's plan' and ultimately in the universe's plan. All she has to do is make sure the person who was supposed to die before her doesn't. Not immediately, anyway. She has to make sure that the person stays alive at least until she has enough time to find the entree.

Then it's party city.

She has a Swiss army knife in her purse. She sharpened the blade last night.

She could kill him, just thrust the blade in his chest, twist it. She's never killed anyone, she even cried when she had to dissect the corpse of a frog Sophomore year. She imagines that when it comes down to it, when that moment of hesitation arises, the will to live will quench her trepidation. Besides, he would do the same to her if the situation was reversed. She doesn't doubt it for a minute. But she doesn't entertain the idea, not yet, because what if her number comes up after his? She needs to find Harmony because this draft, it's just a warning. She isn't sure what it means yet but it's getting worse and she has the feeling that time is running out.

 **~FD~**

"I knew her."

"Huh?"

"That woman who was killed… I knew her."

"Uh-huh."

Someone at the jukebox picks a crappy jazz song. Is having crappy music as an option on a jukebox even legal? Diane swings her bar stool around to find the culprit. He's easy to spot out because he's the only one on the dance floor swinging his hips to the trumpet. Glares are shot his way like arrows but he doesn't seem to notice. He holds his drink up high and even above the speakers he can be heard humming.

Three shots of whiskey are set right in front of Diane.

"You getting a ride home tonight?" Bartender asks.

Diane's smile is enough to make him walk away and as soon as his back is turned she flips him the bird. Screw him. What was he going to do? Cut her off? She'd just go across the street, give money to his competition. Didn't he think she had the sense to call a taxi? This was going to be the worst storm of the season, those newscasters announced.

No unnecessary travel.

Diane read between the lines, determined that it excluded those who wanted to get shit-faced at a local bar after discovering that a member of your super small survivor club was killed in an accident last night. The first shot tickles. The second makes her burp. She twirls the third between her fingers, watching the liquid swirl.

She's been drinking since she saw the update on television and still, she's freezing her ass off. She can't remember a time when whiskey didn't warm her up, or at least leave her oblivious to the cold. Maybe her tolerance is increasing with age. Her arm goes up: "Bartender." Did that little bastard just roll his eyes at her? "Bartender..."

The kid takes his time coming to her, more concerned about getting the numbers from some college girls who looked like they didn't know which way was up rather than collecting her hard earned cash. And it was hard earned, all ten years she put into that place. It only took one crazy driver to destroy what could have been a decent future. Like the diner, she felt like her future was going up in flames.

She spent the week applying for different job positions, waitress jobs mostly, but some fast food and restaurant gigs. She grew concerned when no one called her back. Her wallet had seen more cobwebs than dollars when she was working at the diner; now, she had to dip into her already slim savings account just to make ends me. She tried called to call about a cashier position at a fried chicken place down the street and got no dial tone. Somewhere, hidden in the mounting piles of unpaid bills lay the FINAL WARNING notice for her phone bill. Tough shit. She resorted to using the payphone across the street, and it was a good plan until this crazy fucking winter weather advisory popped up on every screen.

She knocks back her last drink, her fingertips still numb as if frostbite were creeping up on her. For a moment, she noticed that no one else seemed nearly as cold, but the men who drank at this particular bar were the kind of guys who laughed when their bones broke, and the women felt the need to keep up with that sort of strength.

Pussies, all of them.

She survived cancer. She survived prison. She survived Presley's.

She had nothing to prove to anyone-

Uh no.

That's it.

Her fist tightens. She hops off of the bar stool with an alarming amount of clarity (she's nowhere near as drunk as she wants to be). The man's finger bends against the play button, he rolls his eyes back in a state of bliss. Out from the speakers pours the music from saxophones, drums, a bass, and drums. People groan. Seeking him out of a forming angry mob, Diane doesn't waste much time pushing through the crowd, only stopping when she's to his back. She taps her finger on his shoulder, gives her most disarming smile.

"Hi."

His eyelids rise and the way his green eyes set on her makes her think she's the only woman in the room. Up close, his gray and white stubble rests against a firm square jaw, his skin a dark tan like sand on a shore, and his bushy dark hair is airy and spry. He might be the most beautiful man she's ever seen.

Then she clocks him.

 **~FD~**

When the taxi's taillights are consumed by the sheet of snow, the panic develops in the center of his chest like a rock. The wind is cruel, attacking him with a barrage of snow that hits so hard it feels like it will pierce his skin. It's directionless, wild, and merciless. The short walk to the trailer from the front yard takes two times longer than usual, his boots sinking in ankle high snow for every step he makes. The weather mimics the temperature of the… the _thing_. Elliot has no name for it. It's like nothing he's ever read or heard of. But it does exist. This is one of the worst weeks of his life but tragedy doesn't slow the gears of his mind like for others. It some ways it lubricates them because his mind seeks answers.

Like this morning. Awoken by the early stages of the storm and the sounds from the police radios outside of the guest room window, he laid in bed, watching the shadows of the snowflakes glide across the ceiling, their stage the alternating red and blue lights. Tears rolled down the sides of his cheeks, pooling on the pillowcase, and he granted the gut wrenching memories to flow freely. Having enough after a while, he set his sorrow aside, just for a little while. There was something more important than grieving his mother that needed to be addressed. What happened at Presley's Diner was the seed of a plan that began to take root in his mind. The time was four AM.

At six, when Elliot splashed a bit of milk in a bowl of Cheerios, his dad, in a t-shirt and flannel bottoms, joined him at the breakfast table. The police lights were gone as were the news vans. Because of the winter weather advisory, Elliot doubted anyone would stick around to interview them.

Elliot's bravery was almost limitless when his plans formulated but now he struggled to tear his gaze from his cereal. The blue irises of his father's eyes were surrounded by the tinted pink of a constant flow of shed tears and the stare across the kitchen table was immovable. There was struggle to keep his quivering eyelids open. The thick mane of brown hair curled at the ends and over his ears; what happened at Presley's Diner was distracting enough to miss a haircut but now… His fingers were loose around the neck of the spoon, his cereal untouched and soggy. The fingers on his other hand drummed the surface of the table, unconsciously.

Elliot held a breath. The trance that held his father captive was impenetrable and devastating. Another minute stretched before there was any indication that Darren wouldn't be lost forever in the black hole of heartache. The movement was slight, his jaw tense when his sight leveled on his son. Under Darren's observation, Elliot's muscles contracted involuntarily. Darren's palm enclosed over Elliot's angular shoulder and the uncomfortable compression of the bony fingers made his teeth clamp down. It was as if he feared that Elliot would float away. Love was authoritative within their home and was still just as vigorous yet Elliot flinched when Darren's eye roamed to latch onto a new subject. As if on cue, Elliot naturally inhaled and couldn't. He opened his mouth and couldn't pull in any oxygen. A second passed, another. It crossed his mind that whatever caused the drafts, caused this, and it meant to kill him. And what if Darren had to watch him die too? Elliot almost reached for Darren instinctively, a third failed attempt setting the match under his lungs. Suddenly the pressure loosened and his gasp was desperate and greedy. Darren's parental sixth sense seemed to activate just then, anchoring his study to Elliot's deep breathing.

"You alright?"

"Yes."

Breakfast ended shortly after that and Elliot retreated to the teal painted bedroom where he spent the next hour preparing. He searched Google for cheap taxi services and asked the cheapest company what the cost for a ride to Rockford was. The cash he earned mowing lawns and shoveling driveways last year barely covered the trip there and back.

There was a notepad on the end table, it's white paper dull from age, and a working pen next to it. At the top, he wrote

 _Dad,_

and paused. The weight of his decision was settling on his shoulders. Would Darren react irrationally when he read the note? Worried? Angry? Proud?

"You've got no choice," Elliot whispered to himself. He pressed the tip of the pen to the next line and ten minutes later he folded the note paper in half and set it next to the lamp. The sleeves of the winter coat were tight over the two sweaters he put on. His red scarf scratched at his neck and chin but he wore it because it was a gift from his mom. It, like the matching gloves, served their purpose and he was ashamed to wonder if he properly thanked her.

Elliot had to squint to see the headlights as it approached the driveway of the garage. Getting out of the house was the one part of the plan that went smoothly; Darren had submitted himself to a drug induced slumber hours ago and his deep snores were a good sign.

The screen door to the trailer rattles. After a struggle to pull it open, he braces his back against it. He pounds a fist against the metal. From the window he doesn't see any light, no movement. His heart sinks in degrees, the hopelessness squeezing his heart.

Darren is probably just getting up now, maybe already reading the note. The thought makes him knock again. It's louder than the first but no competition for the wind.

Doubt has been a tenacious shadow since he first laid out his plan; not strong enough to grab him but it hovers, as if prepared to strike. As the seconds tick by, his doubts become increasingly more worrisome. What if he's wrong? What if his imagination _has_ gotten the best of him, just like his mother said?

Down the road, twin orbs that are feeble under the coat of snow cut across the whiteout like a beacon of hope. Elliot releases the screen door, his steps tentative as the approaching headlights brighten, because as the car seems to metastasize from the storm, it looks familiar and the familiarity feels good.

His legs respond before his brain can give the command. Tripping as he climbs in and out of his old footprints, he waves his arms again, the wind doing it's best to knock him over. The tires make a lurching sound as they roll to a stop. Only a couple of feet away, he can barely make out the back door opening, the car's light spilling out. Half of her face is hidden by the shadow, the other is illuminated by the tint of orange from the inside of the car, and it's enough for his smile becomes colossal. His fingers clamp around the door handle like a lifeline and he yanks his boots from the mound of snow, one after the other, shutting the door as soon as he enters the car. He slaps snow off of his jacket, his pants, the warmth inside the car aiding the battle.

"You're Elliot Mathis." The words carry the tune of amazement, as if he were a celebrity. Of course she knew him. He doubts that she could forget any of them.

"You're Harmony." His unwraps the scarf from his neck, sets it in a bundle beside him.

The driver's torso is craned, his squint full of confusion. Harmony makes the introduction. "Scott, meet Elliot. Elliot. Scott. Scott, he was _there_ that night."

He rides the wave of relief for a few more seconds and realizes that he doesn't know how to start. If she disappeared again…

"You don't have a cell phone."

Harmony's thin black eyebrow curves in interest. "You looked me up?"

Scott studies Elliot and his eyes seem to hold many unanswered questions but instead of asking them he puts a hand on the steering wheel and eases his foot off of the brake. When the wheels roll, Elliot pulls off his gloves, sweat between his fingers. "I had to." Elliot replies. "Have you… seen the news about my mom?"

As he mentions Harley, his entire bones strain and he has to stare at the ceiling to prevent the flow of tears.

"I'm sorry. It's bullshit." She speaks timidly but her words echo his feelings. She rests her head right above it, her dark hair bunching at the top. It's the first time that he considers the amount of pressure she must be under. She looks like she wears the weight of responsibility on her shoulders. A moment passes.

"It _is_ bullshit." He agrees. "Because it was preventable, right?"

Her forehead crinkles. Her eyes drop and she doesn't look back up. "I can't answer that for you," There's shame written all over her face before she turns around.

He doesn't respond, afraid she'll catch the disappointment in his voice. Her words ground him. For the last seven days, he built this picture of this woman who saved his life, thought of her as having all of the answers. It was intoxicating, thinking that there was something like her, walking the streets. A modern day superhero. He assumed that when she spoke, she'd put to rest some of his most burning questions. He hasn't completely given up on his mission but the longer he observes her, the more he's convinced that she's just a girl. Other than being his own personal hero, there's nothing about her that speaks to her being anything other than a normal high school student.

 _What if she can't help me?_

Scott turns left at an intersection. The trailer park is behind them now, this new road pushing into the woods, where the trees are robust sentinels on either side. The snow floats a little thicker now, the lines in the road less discernible.

"You took that purse on purpose. To save us." It's not a question.

"I didn't think it would work. Dumb luck."

Elliot pulls on a loose thread from the stitching on his jeans. There's a lot riding on the answers to these next couple of questions and he's afraid to lose his nerve. She glimpses him from over her shoulder. "Go ahead, don't be scared."

"Did you see me die?" She nods.

"Not this again." Scott mumbles.

She ignores Scott, giving her attention to the rows of trees. "It doesn't matter what I saw. You might think it does, but technically it never happened."

Her answer leaves him unsatisfied but he doesn't push it. From the way her breathing picks up pace, it's obvious that she's uncomfortable.

His next question almost hurts to speak but in many ways, it's his most important one, the motivation to his search for her, the seed of his plan. He hesitates and his mouth becomes dry.

 _What if she can't?_

He musters strength from thinking about Harley's smile.

"Can you do the same you did at the diner for my mother?"

 **~FD~**

Harmony doesn't even dare look behind her. Not even a glance.

 _What have I done_?

This kid actually took his time to look up her address, to search for her, and when he hopped in the backseat she started to feel _important_. She is mortified and can't hide her expression. A couple of seconds seems to alter the air.

"Oh."

"I'm sorry," There's no volume to her voice. It's barely a breath.

And poor Scott. It's not like she had time to clue him in on her research or anything that's occurred to her during the last seven days. His head turns in her direction every few minutes and explaining Elliot's role in this… it might drive him away for good.

For good, for good. Not like the turbulent on-again-off-again habit that reared its ugly head every couple of months. When he called her this morning, even though she was miserable from the sleepless night of research, her heart fluttered, as if reminding her that if she needed a reason to be alive, it was this man. He asked her if she was still mad at him. She apologized, keeping the grovelling to a minimum, her good mood swelling.

The articles, the blog posts, the true accounts of the visionaries and their survivors: the ugly truth of it was that he wouldn't believe her. Telling him that around the world, certain people are prone to premonitions of their own deaths, avoiding them, and that the universe or death itself has to rectify the hiccup by tweaking the story of the world to create perfect accidents to wipe out the survivors… hearing something like that would make him change his number.

It's hard enough to swallow that pill herself.

The silence isn't helping much either though. Eventually, she'll sit him down, talk to him.

"Scott, are you cold?"

At Elliot's question, Scott has the beginnings of the smirk. "You're joking, right? I'm sweating balls."

The draft touches her when she takes a second to study Elliot.

Unmistakable fear.

"You don't feel that?" Harmony turns her head to Scott.

"Seriously, whats the punchline?"

Her breath becomes misty. Her ears become numb. This must be what it feels like to jump in an ice lake. Scott's eyes become wide. "What's up with you?"

"Freezing." She twists the dial, adjusting the temperature to the highest available option. The heat hisses as it pours from the vents. Harmony takes off her gloves, pressing her palms against them.

" _Shit_!"

The vent closest to him coughs dust and it blows straight into his face. With one hand on the steering wheel, he attempts a quick swipe at his eyes. He blinks, testing the pain tolerance, then rubs his eye again, for a second longer than before.

He swerves the wheel slightly and catches himself. Seeing him almost lose control of the car, it wakes her fear, and it occurs to her that they may be going a little too fast for this sort of weather.

The deer just appears.

Harmony grabs Scott's arm.

She's about to say his name when he notices it. He slams down hard on the brake, putting his whole leg into it, but the deer is too close. Harmony's muscles grow taut, her bones stiffen, her hand on Scott's arm in a death grip, bracing herself for the inevitable. Three, two-

At the last second, Scott yanks the wheel to the left. The turn is almost sharp enough to avoid the deer but it slams into the door of the backseat, knocking out the window and Harmony feels it's blood on the back of her neck.

The car is in the air, and Harmony's heart is beating so hard it hurts and there's warmth between her legs.

Scott screams and Harmony screams and there's a thud in the back as Elliot is thrown against the opposite side and he doesn't make a sound.

The car lands with a crash and her skull slams into the window, the glass cracking.

She sees stars and her ear rings and she doesn't have time to hold her head because the car begins its descent, careening between the trees on the steep slant.

She feels tired suddenly and she looks at Scott. There's determination in the way that he navigates them. She's proud of him.

There is no time to check on Elliot because the impact of the crash is instant and everything goes black.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Harmony coughs and something rattles in her chest. The air carries the scent of burned rubber, smoke, gasoline. One of her eyes opens, the other swollen. Something cold, like ice, cracks on her skin as she scrunches her forehead in confusion. She can't feel her hands, her feet. The windshield, the windows; everything is white. How long has she been out? She coughs again, the phlegm in her chest loosening. Behind her eyes, her brain throbs. "Scott…?" It hurts to speak, hurts to move. She grits her teeth, reaching for the seat belt, releasing it. After a moment of wondering whether or not she's snapped her neck, she manages to turn her head to the driver's chair. It's empty. The glass is jagged, broken. Harmony imagines Scott trying to wake her, then kicking the glass, crawling out to run for help. But is that…

Blood, frozen, on the largest jagged piece.

Elliot coughs behind her. His breathing is hoarse, like an old man's. The snow changes direction and begins to blow into the car. Harmony turns away from it but it springs on a series of coughs. "E-Elliot?" Her teeth are chattering so hard she feels like they might break.

"F-four d-d-degrees." Elliot's tiny voice has someone become half it's usual strength.

"C-can you move?"

"L-leg-" She can feel the vibrations of his coughs in her seat.

"I-I'm sorry." She says.

"T-t-t-tell m-m-me."

At first she doesn't know what he means. When it hits, when she remembers, she refuses. "L-later. I promise."

"N-n-now." Elliot's scream of pain brings tears to Harmony's eyes. His fingertips touch her arm. "A-a-am I-I going t-t-to die?"

Harmony rolls her head to his fingers. His skin looks painfully swollen, red, blistered. If he lives, he'll lose the hand. And there's no telling what the rest of him looks like. The truth doesn't go down easy.

 _If it weren't for me, he'd_ -

 _He'd what, burn to death_?

 _Is this better_?

If her premonition were a superpower, this would be the time to use it, right? Rewind time, stop Scott from coming? Find Darren's number in the white pages, tell him to keep an eye on his son? Come on, rewind, rewind, rewind-

Elliot's fingers drops from her arm.

Where is Scott? How long have they been out here? How much longer do they have?

"E-Elliot?" Harmony calls. Turning sideways nearly makes her pass out. The pain is mind numbing, torturous. "Elliot, answer m-me."

"Huh?"

"D-don't fall as-sleep."

"Mm."

"Elliot." The rear-view mirror is covered with snow but if she can clean it…

Harmony lifts her arm but it takes too much effort and it flops like a dead fish. The numbness doesn't dull the ache from the impact. She squeezes her eye shut, waits for the feeling to fade, then tries again. Her hand hangs loose on her wrist. Her palm, swollen and red, is beginning to look like an apple and her fingers, like little sausage links.

 _And my broken arm, what about that_? She pushes that personal concern to the side for the moment. She can't hear him breathing.

She can't compel her fingers to move. She reaches forward, groaning as she swipes the side of the mirror. The ice that has gathered on it's surface cuts her as she rubs her lifeless hand. When a spot becomes clear, she drops her arm, tries not to pass out from the strength she's exerted. "E-Elliot." She says his name. Even if her other eye weren't swollen, she could barely catch a glimpse of his face. He stares at her in the reflection, his jaw relaxed, frozen, his head on his shoulder. "Elliot, p-p-please-"

Footsteps, running.

"Here! I found it!" A voice.

Dogs bark.

Harmony weakly turns toward the shadows that approach the car. A flashlight shines in her eye. She thinks she hear someone say: "Mother of God."

 **~FD~**

He braced himself for the tears when they pulled back the sheet. Even when his son's disfigured face filled the television screen and the ground beneath his shoes crumbled, the tears wouldn't come. He remembered where he was and nodded, confirming that the corpse on the slab was his child. Would the funeral home be able to cover the bruises for the wake?

Lost in his thoughts, he looked away again as they replaced the sheet. He didn't want to remember Elliot like that and knew that the image of the corpse that was both Elliot and nothing like him was branded in the back of his retinas.

In the back of the police cruiser, he fears the nightmares he'll have tonight.

When he steps into his guest home, he watches the police cruiser pull out of the driveway, returning to the storm. He presses his palm against the door, giving the door a gentle push. The lights are off but he can't bring himself to turn them on. The pacing starts. He cleans out the refrigerator, scrubbing the shelves meticulously and then moves onto the cabinets, the stove, things that have collected dust. He fixes a squeaky door, hangs up pictures he meant to get to but always forgot about. Room to room, there's always something that needed to be done. The next couple of hours pass in a blur.

At one point, he parts the blinds as the storm begins to calm. A short while after, the storm's energy is fury.

As time passes, he waits for the tears to come, the sadness, but the only thing left is the hollowness in his chest. There is a separation from himself during the night; aimlessly wandering in the darkness, he becomes vaguely aware that he is a shell of his former self, nothing more. His hand rests on the doorknob to the guest room Elliot slept in last night. Seeing Elliot's things strewn about the room only deepness the hollowness. An ache develops. It's both unbearable and distant. He picks up one of Elliot's shirts from the floor, presses it to his nose, inhales the scent. He runs a hand over the pillow, the blanket. The folded note lay nonchalant on the nightstand and he knows its meant for him. He unfolds it, scans the page.

 _Dad,_

 _Going to visit Harmony Knight to get answers. I will explain when I come back. Please don't be mad._

 _Love, Elliot._

 _PS I'll call to let you know I'm safe_

He traces his son's handwriting and the first of what will be many tears drips from his eyelash. He rereads the note once more and the alarm bells of his mind begin to blare. The folded note is slipped into his pocket. The hollowness starts to fill and eventually it overflows.

 _Harmony Knight_. Her name makes him see fire. His wife was spooked by something the night she died. It was related to the accident at Presley's Diner. His son got in a car with that woman and now he'll never see him again. The woman uprooted their lives within a week. Nothing had been the same since she stole Harley's purse. For the last week a shadow had fed on their misery and Darren now had a name for it.

His son is dead and Harmony is still alive.

What makes her so special?

Why should she get to live?

 **~FD~**

He handles her like a gentlemen.

The way he runs his fingers down her arms awakens a longing she didn't know she had. She stands from the couch and disappointment flashes in his eyes and it feels good to be missed. No one would ever miss her.

In the hallway, Issac darts past her like a flame ball, disappearing into the black of her room. She turns the light switch up, retrieves a couple of condoms from her nightstand. He's taken off his shoes and his feet are crossed, his heels on her coffee table. There's a hole in one of his socks. There's hunger in his gaze. Sitting beside him, she senses worry.

"Can I see your hand?"

He holds his palm face up. There are oil stains under his short fingernails. His skin is rough around the muscle. She rubs a thumb down his palm, her grin mischievous. With her other hand, she unsnaps the button of her jeans. He allows her to guide his hand into her pants. He makes a noise when she begins to moan. He becomes less of a gentleman and it makes her want him more. He lifts her up and she wraps herself around him; his lips are salty and his kisses are deep. One of his hands slides into her hair when he takes a handful and gives it a playful tug. She bites his lip and they grin in each others mouths.

He lays her on the bed, stands to unbutton his flannel shirt.

He screams and then she does because its so feral. She scrambles away him, toward her nightstand drawer where her pistol lies. Retrieving it, she points it at him. His suave composure is gone. He's quivering, backed against the bedroom door as if trapped. With a shaky finger, he points to the side of the bed. He doesn't immediately register the gun until he turns to her.

"Is that a _gun_?"

"I'd like you to leave." She's had her fair share of frights. Curious and without relaxing her aim, she cranes her neck to see what it is that has him so shaken. "Issac?"

"I-I'm ailurophobic."

"A-what?"

"Fear of felines." He now gives her the same uneasy look. "Do you mind pointing that thing in another direction?"

When he doesn't deliver a punchline, it dawns on Diane that he's serious. She smiles, setting the gun down, and she crosses her arms, willing herself to not think about it. But the first bubble of laughter spews out and that paves the way for the rest of them. The laughter is refreshing and gut bursting and it's actually making her cry. There's a few seconds when she can't breath and her laughter comes out like chokes.

Catching her breath, she remembers that she's not alone. His fearful face has become stony, devoid of any amusement. His jaw clicks, as if contemplating a decision. Her willpower is lost when Issac meows and his head snaps in the cats direction. This brings on a whole new series of laughs. Between them, she hears him say "Fuck this." and throw open the bedroom door. She wipes her tears with her index fingers. That laugh leaves her lightheaded and, ironically, satisfied. Sore stomach and weak kneed, she lifts her head to admire the way he throws on his boots. Slightly disappointed and a little horny, her eyes close, the threat no longer a concern, listening to his noisy exit. The front door creaks as it swings open and his heavy footsteps fade away.

It's the breeze that wakes her up. A hand blindly searches for a blanket where there is none. She cracks an eye open. Had she forgotten to close a window? It almost hurts to sit up. Both of her knees throb when she bends them. All of her joints ache to some degree, agitated by the frost. Her breath is curt and her lungs struggle slightly. It's like that phantom draft she felt at the bar, but more palpable. The wind's ear-piercing howl is threatening and definitely not in her head. And it's coming from…

She's to her feet at an alarming rate, briskly jogging out of her bedroom toward the front door, which is wide open. In front of the door, a couple inches of snow look like winter trying to invite itself in.

 _I'll have to shovel my own living room_.

 _Oh, that son of a bitch_.

Not wanting her door to stay open, she steps into the snow so that she can reach the doorknob. She stretches out, half in, half out of her home. With the tips of her fingers stretched, she is able to wrap her hand around it. When the door slams shut, she pats herself on the back. She hops out of the snow, sitting on the couch and resting her foot on her knee. No harm done. Fortunately for that asshole. Next time she saw him, he'd get more than a black eye. She addresses the snow pile in disbelief and is trying to remember if she even owned a shovel when she sees the little paw prints next to her footprint. Time stops for her. Were those prints there before? She looks at the snow pile, just to make sure. Yes, a trail of paw prints heading out.

She only calls out to him once because he's actually a very obedient cat and once is all it takes.

The hysteria explodes in her chest. She bounces to her feet, throws the front door open only and gets a slap in the face from the wind. She squints, kneels despite her pain, the despair making her look faster, more frantic.

 _Is that the trail_?

It could be. Little dents in the snows face. There's nothing else, so that has to be it. She puts on the first sweatshirt she sees, pulls up two pairs of socks. The zipper to her coat snags in the middle. She finds a single glove and her hat is missing. A grim image of Issac found frozen after the storm gives her energy. After zipping up her boots, she's maybe lost five minutes. Thank God that after slapping it a few times, the yellow flashlight under the kitchen sink still works. She pushes the door open and amazingly the flurries seem even more aggressive than before. In this weather, he can't have gotten far. If she's lucky, he'll have circled back here to find her. The flashlight flickers and she slaps the bottom of it, aims down. The trail is on the verge of fading but it's visible. She holds the folds of her coat together after shutting her door, throwing herself at the mercy of the storm.


End file.
